


one night to be confused

by monanotlisa



Category: Fringe
Genre: Amberverse, F/M, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 03:22:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monanotlisa/pseuds/monanotlisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, <i>Enemy of my Enemy</i>?</p><p>After <i>that</i> particular scene, how could I not write <i>this</i>?</p>
            </blockquote>





	one night to be confused

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory red'n blue tag for 4x09, set some time after the events of the episode.

"Hey," he said, and she half-waited for a _Red_ out of his mouth that didn't come. His smile was hesitant, his blue eyes behind those glasses were wide. Liv wasn't fooled by either, not any longer. This Lincoln had a softer touch, but his handle on her was just as good. Maybe better, and how was that for disconcerting?

"What are you doing here?" She turned fully on her barstool and gave him a smirk, her stance perfectly at ease. "They lengthen your leash?"

His mouth did a rueful little move that she'd never seen before -- great to watch before she realized this wasn't an _old dog new trick_ situation. This doggie was brand-new and keen.

"Your earpiece sets for us are still being processed; something about re-routing circuits as to prevent listening in on any channel not part of the Joined Network."

"So you contacted me directly. How analog of you."

He laughed, glancing down for a moment. There was even a hint of color in his cheeks. How a man like him had made it to field agent, let alone another universe, was a mystery to her. But then again, the other side clearly had different ideas about recruiting for Fringe Division, that prodigal son of Walter Bishop yet another case in point.

Eventually, of course, even this Lincoln looked up again, and around Jeff's. The interior designer could have stuck to one style, Liv presumed, but she had no deep-seated opinion on mixing dry stone hut elements with US sports-bar paraphernalia. "I could actually ask you the same thing, by the way. I thought you didn't drink?"

Her turn to laugh. "You read my case-file."

"Cover to cover." He opened his mouth, then closed it again rather resolutely. "May I sit down?"

She raised one slow eyebrow but motioned him to take the stool next to her. This was bound to be interesting, if nothing else. Behind them, the bartender, who doubled as the eponymous owner of the bar, gave them the twice-over, which Liv took as confirmation it wasn't just her: this version of Lincoln Lee did seem more suited for file folders than Fringe events.

And yet. The back of her neck was prickling. He studied her glass of Dark Joey -- half-full, by the way -- for a moment. "Well, for a non-alcoholic drink, this one looks sufficiently bad-ass."

This time her grin was organically grown, slap-a-green-sticker-on-it-and-raise-the-price. "So they say on tv. Can I get you a drink? A real one. Or are you still on the job?"

"No, I'm -- okay, there's the official version and an official question." Liv didn't miss that measuring look, very brief but there. Clever pup. "But I just wanted to talk to you."

Right. Liv rolled her shoulders, tossed her hair, and deftly caught Jeff's eyes. "A beer for him. Something locally brewed. He's a visitor."

His drink down in front of him, Lincoln gave her a smile that was nothing but sweet, and here, finally, she could see glimpses of her own Lincoln in him. Only this one didn't even pretend to be a confident man of the world. Which really seemed the wiser choice. "Thanks." He took a long sip. Liv watched him lick the foam off his lips. The clean line of his neck and shoulders should have been as familiar to her as her own reflection. It should have been.

No doubt this was another tactic of his, letting her talk instead of him, but Liv didn't mind steering herself when the situation called for it. "If it's about any double-date ideas of yours, I'm out. We're not actually twins after all. Take it up with her."

Lincoln managed to swallow his current mouthful but not the cough that followed. Liv in turn managed not to grin too dirtily.

He put his glass down and drew a slow finger across the wet rim once, making it hum. The lager (or whatever it was) obviously held all the secrets of all universes, judging from his concentrated stare. "She's meeting with Peter, again. Something about the Machine. He convincingly explained that she too had a part in it, could control it." The small frown on his face deepened. " _Could_ being the operative word. In his time-line Olivia supposedly had superpowers."

But of course she had. Liv pushed down whatever she was totally not feeling there and waved a dismissive hand. "So they're discussing his final goal: him going home. Sounds reasonable to me, and probably to her too."

"Reasonable. Sure." He met her eyes then. "Just, also emotional. I've been there, with them, and it's…ever since Jones, they've been spending a lot of time together. With every meeting Olivia is less...uncomfortable. Less stand-offish."

Now that was something to marvel at, indeed. But yeah, perhaps this Lincoln had a point. Also, a problem. "You're jealous." She wasn't following the saga of the alternate timeline too closely, but it didn't take a background check to see that Peter Bishop had a history with Olivia, and vice versa. There was just _something_.

"I am." She had to lean in to properly understand him, but he blinked, focusing fully on her. "I don't want to be. I like Peter. I...I obviously like Olivia."

Fair enough, if not too understandable regarding the object of his affection. "I get it. I just don't get why we're talking about this."

"For starters, my therapist is not well-versed in alternate time-lines, different universes, and the complications these bring to our...relationships." Liv had to double-check, but yeah, that hint of a smile meant he'd made a joke. She wasn't sure whether to smile back, but it wouldn't have been hard, at all, with an expression as inviting as his. "Maybe I did think you could help."

Liv kept her voice light when answering, "Funny; last time I checked, I worked for Fringe Division, not the _New York Journal American_ 's advice column."

Lincoln looked away. Naturally, his lashes were as dense as her own Lincoln's. "I know. That's why. But I understand. Sorry for bothering you." He squared his jaw, straightened on his stool, and now, finally, he looked almost exactly like her partner. It made her draw back to blink at his face when he spoke again. "I thought we, you and I, had something. Beyond the case, I mean."

Okay, that was ludicrous, and -- and Lincoln was already standing up to leave, picking up his coat without sure, neat movements. Not hasty, but decided. "This is not to...the case remains my priority. I want to keep our working relationship as good as it has been, with you." At that, he looked around the bar to check for listeners, and, frowning at the guy three seats down, leaned in. Liv's right hand gripped the corner of the bar. But she didn't move away from his mouth so close to her ear. "I need us to find the shapeshifters, put Jones behind bars, and prevent them from hurting any more of our people." He exhaled once more, looking like himself again: like a man thrown into a strange world but perfectly willing to make it his. "But you're right; my relationships are not your concern."

And he was right, and Liv had been right from the start of this near-conversation. Still, she reached out and caught his arm, took a breath of her own again. "Look, your Olivia isn't exactly like a sister to me."

"You're right. She's more than that." There it was again, that conviction.

"Still not me, though."

"No," he said, "no, just as I'm not...your Lincoln. But I think you already know that." The corner of his mouth lifted, just a little. He nodded at her. "Thank you for the beer. I like this side's microbrews better than mine."

"You're welcome." She thought back at the beginning for a moment, at who Lincoln Lee was in every iteration. "You should thank me for the answer to that question you already knew when you found me here, too. And I haven't forgotten your suggestion of..." It sounded ridiculous, but at the same time not wrong in light of the circumstances, "...a mole in the department. Just haven't seen anything so far. I'll keep looking." Which she hadn't done, except intermittently, but would do from now.

That got her a real smile from him. "Thanks. I'll…I'll see you."

And of course he did, not two weeks later.

Jones had been ramping it up a notch, as had been only to be expected. The target of his little cat-and-mouse game was not their own world this time around, although that's precisely where his methods came from. Turned out that, as she'd always suspected, the other side talked a good game but couldn't quite back it back up -- at least not when it came to biotech attacks. Liv idly wondered if she should be worried about her blasé reaction. Of course her Fringe Division had experience with deadly strains of bacteria smuggled into the food chain ever since that vixaphore bacteria outbreak in Los Angeles. Of course they had taken care of it effectively if after way too gruesome scenarios. Of course she and Charlie and Lincoln had experience handling -- or, well, not handling -- the infectious agent. Lincoln had even come up with some solution (literally) for provisional containment.

Lincoln and Charlie were for that reason promptly partnered with the other Olivia, who became uncharacteristically misty-eyed and sweet-faced, and wow, Liv was so going to lord the fact that Charlie Francis turned out to be kryptonite to the woman over him forever. Peter Bishop was -- scary, actually, his mojo with their own Astrid (less than pleased about having to leave the premises) left Liv almost a little jealous; these two were almost immediately running the other side's command center as if they'd been working stochastics and strategy together for ages, and were communicating mainly with the other Olivia. Which left her with the other Lincoln again. Presumably their teamwork back with Jones had not gone unnoticed by either Broyles, and okay, maybe this Lincoln hadn't been entirely wrong about some sort of connection.

Not that it had to be quite like this, though: said Lincoln sprawled on the factory floor next to her, the two of them funhouse mirror-images: on their backs, gasping, with both their guns still held up high (if not quite smoking). Her jacket, shirt, and, _fuck_ , her bra too, were ripped to pieces courtesy of that conveyor belt. Those leather pants would only do for a Goth party now. His arm was probably still smarting from the ricochet. Liv winced, tapped her earlobe before remembering. "You tell them he's down, that we got him; they can come and grab him from Hall 3. That we're safe, for now."

Lincoln nodded and frowned and used his own anachronistic little mike to do so. He relayed the message, in turn received the good news that the rest of the team had managed to contain it all. But really, Liv couldn't get over the fact the guy did so before even getting up -- lying there in that freaky jacket that said "FBI". Talk about a blast from the past.

Finally getting to his feet and looking at her, he immediately averted his gaze again. "Oh, um. You. That --"

"Machine was a death-trap, yeah. My mother told me that processed food would kill me eventually." She looked down at herself. All of herself. Which was on display.

Cheeks hot, which was easy enough to witness from glancing at his diligently averted face, Lincoln had the decency to humor her and grin. He took the jacket off, and really, who came up with blue and yellow uniforms? He blindly held it out to her. "Here you go. You can cover, I think, most of it?" Still a little breathless from their showdown.

The jacket was ugly as sin but, given his slight height advantage, covered her not quite to mid-thigh. When Liv shrugged it on, it was still warm from his body. She didn't know what was weirder: that it smelled like him, or that it didn't smell like her own Lincoln. Or of course that she didn't mind at all. Quite to the contrary. "This'll do for a moment. But I'd rather not go through the debrief on this side like this."

He bit his lip. "We're a good way from headquarters, but we could swing by my...by Peter's house. Well, strictly speaking, it is Walter Bishop's. But Peter told me I could feel at home: What’s his is mine, and there are some clothes that would fit you."

The little incestuous family thing that side had going on was pretty astounding. He'd told her he'd moved in with Peter Bishop, sanctioned officially in part to keep an eye on the younger Bishop, but she'd seen these two, and they definitely didn't have a _brother's keeper_ kind of relationship. Then again, that wasn't really what interested her now. "Okay, let's go there and grab them."

In the car, with him looking straight ahead at the road, she had both the time and the inclination to look at him. "The clothes. Are they your Olivia's?"

His mouth twisted unhappily. "No, I…I wouldn't offer them then." For her sake or for her sake, Liv wasn't so sure. Probably both.

"Previous inhabitant?"

"Yes, Peter's mother, a long time ago."

Great; now she'd end up in earth tones and sensible pantsuits. Which obviously wasn't Lincoln's worry, though; his face was tight. Liv played with some of the funny little airvent buttons in this company-issue car for a moment. "So I take it Peter's not around at the house, and neither is..." She let the sentence trail off; it was kinder on both of them, clearly.

"No, but that's just…there have been. A lot."

Right. Pretty much confirming her suspicions about those other two. She didn't know if this Lincoln had botched it or if something else was at play. She didn't _want_ to know.

What she did want to know then, at the house, was how they did have to seem the same dress size. Or perhaps all the Bishops preferred tall, slender women.

Lincoln stood next to her, staring at the black cashmere pullover and the black pants she'd dragged out of the closet and unpacked carefully. "That…that looks nice."

She laughed. "You're such a smooth-talker."

When she turned to him, he was looking at her, these baby blues of his too close to guileless to be real. "I could be. Only I didn't think you'd want me to be."

Damn. She felt her grin slip, but it only morphed into something else. Liv had honestly no idea what her face looked like. She did have a pretty good idea of what the rest of her looked like though: one Olivia Dunham, pretty much naked in only her black boots, wearing his very own jacket.

If he still had high-school style dreams, she was pretty sure this was one of them. Or close enough for government work.

She swallowed. Words were usually easy for her, but here, now? Not so much.

He gently took the clothes out her tingling hands, put them down onto one of the boxes...not without making sure the crease was preserved. It was, Liv though, faintly hilarious, or would have been had there been more air in the room. She half-wanted to turn away, maybe even shove at him playfully,telling him to let her dress in peace, and in one piece. But the thing was, he was not her Lincoln.

And he stepped closer, one hand trailing over cardboard, eyes on hers. His face was wide open like the sky. "I'm not very good at this."

And Liv wanted to laugh, because it was true; it was just _also_ true he was using precisely that fact to get her where he wanted her -- how he wanted her, more like. And the worst thing of all was that it was working. Liv enjoyed a good flirt or three, and she could verbally hold her own against Charlie and Lincoln and, before that, the guys in the unit. But she'd always liked the perhaps more reserved but ever so determined guys. Guys where you'd scratch the surface and find not brass or gold but platinum.

"You're good enough at it," she said, and fine, so maybe she shouldn't have said it in quite that tone of voice, making his pupils dilate and his breathing go faster. But she had; no matter that it was a terrible idea for more than one reason.

She didn't want to be wondering if he'd take that last step, or when, so she did it for him. The hair at the back of his neck was soft when her fingers touched it, and his mouth was still warm from the coffee they'd had, earlier, down in the spacious kitchen. Its unfamiliar, fast-working, _glorious_ dark-roast caffeine must have been the reason for her heart acting like this, acting up like this.

He kissed her back immediately, lips as soft as they looked, but that was it for that particular sensation. His hands were hot even through the jacket, sliding into the small of her back, down to her ass to pull her up and close. Liv made a sound she didn't think she'd made before. He tried to unbutton his shirt while she reached up to take his glasses off; they were already smudged, and slight in her hands when she set them down blindly on the edge of the box.

The bed, covered with a white sheet, was only -- if she were to count -- five steps away; they wouldn't have been long if they had managed to walk separately, but that just wasn't happening. What was instead happening was at once the worst and best idea she'd had lately, because out of his clothes he was gorgeous, and from his stare after he slipped his jacket down and tugged away with surprising fierceness the remains of her clothing, he thought the same about her.

In a tangle, with an _oompf_ , they landed on the bed, rolling. His cock left hot-then-cold trails on her belly. Together, they removed that last sock, her boots. His fingers were dexterous, precise there, and Liv thought about putting them to good use: on her, in her. Thankfully Lincoln continued to be good with other people's intentions, most notably hers, because without stopping to kiss her, he slid one hand down, dipping into her navel and making her gasp, then between her legs.

"You do want this," Lincoln's voice, half-wonder and half-conviction, made her shiver.

And she did, only she didn't want him to be talking because he might ask questions she didn't know the answer to, or worse question himself. She carded her fingers through his hair, looking at him as he was looking at her. "Back," she said, and he opened his mouth, then nodded, settling back without taking his hands off her hip, her shoulder, shifting one last time so she could move over him, then with him. Kiss him until both their kisses turned sloppy, until those deft fingers of his touched her just right, right there.

With her heart rate already slowing, he reached out and cupped the back of her neck, propping them up and with one movement flipping them one last time so she was on her back, her gasp not sex-per-se-related. He almost-laughed, ran a less than soothing hand over her nipples. "Sorry. Not for this, though." His other hand was on her thigh, tapping it, his eyes hot and hopeful at once, and she spread her legs wide so he could enter her again, hooked her ankles around the back of his and oh, yeah, held on for that ride.

When he came, he kissed her hard enough to make their teeth clang, but that's not what made her shudder in turn.

It was her name, her name on his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta thanks to Ziparumpazoo. <3


End file.
